


brambles in your bed

by depthsofgreen



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Asexual Oswald Cobblepot, Asexuality Spectrum, Intimacy, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 10:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10332248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depthsofgreen/pseuds/depthsofgreen
Summary: Oswald experiences a sexual fantasy for the first time. Set directly after 3x05 and before 3x06.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Nygmobblepot Week 2017](nygmobblepotweek.tumblr.com), Day 4: Sexy.

Lying in bed, lights out, mansion quiet, Oswald catches himself imagining Ed’s arms around him.

_Imagining_ , despite the fact that he had just, not even an hour ago, _lived_ it, the roar of the fireplace warming his cheeks and the textured rub of his own bathrobe wrapped around Ed’s frame scratching at his clinging palms.

The realization hits him like a slap, though not an altogether unpleasant one. Here he lies, Oswald Cobblepot, thirty-two years old and dreaming of the arms of another for the first time in his long and touch-starved life.

His mother had promised him that this would happen one day, laughing off his sullen claims that he _didn’t date_ _and wasn’t interested_ , those big kind knowing eyes of hers twinkling with something Oswald had once found frustrating, but that now he only misses as much as every other part of her. She was right, after all, he thinks, right in part and wrong in another, because _this_ , whatever this feeling, this _want_ is, it’s different, Oswald is sure, to the affairs he’d seen pass through her bedroom, handsy men with angry mouths, doors locked shut and the violent sounds of bedsprings creaking.

Different, because it’s Ed’s _arms_ he wants, his softness, the press of his chest against him. Oswald wonders, suddenly, if this is how his mother had felt for his father, or vice versa, despite knowing, of course, that creaking bedsprings must have come into the equation at some point or he wouldn’t exist at all.

It’s not a reality that bothers him. After all, Ed had had Kringle, had _had_ Kringle, and that was fine, well and good, though Oswald tries not to think about it, worried Ed’s gentle mouth will take on that angered curl of the men he’d so hated to watch touch his mother.

It’s Ed’s arms he keeps returning to, long and lean and muscled strong, and, _oh_ , how safe Oswald had felt within them. How loved, how protected.

He must tell Ed, he knows, tell him that he wants this, something _more_ , his arms and all the affection he’s felt them tremble with.

Ed might not return that want at all. The thought chills Oswald to the bone. But then, he might want all that and then some, want Oswald the way he’d wanted Kringle, carnal and invasive, a thought that chills Oswald afresh for just a moment before he’s warming again, thinking, _yes_ , actually, he’d be _willing_ , willing to give Ed all that he wanted if it only meant those arms could be his.

He could easily see himself kissing Ed, after all, even liking it - Ed’s lips would be smooth, Oswald is sure, his movements gentle. He’d take the lead, the way he always does, and Oswald would let him, the way _he_ always does.

And if Ed’s hands slipped beneath Oswald’s clothes, the skin of his fingerpads brushing against his stomach, his chest, his hip? Would Oswald stop him? Would he want to, or would it not be thrilling, in its own way, to feel _that_ , Ed like _this_ , a side of him only one other (dead now, Oswald thinks, with some satisfaction) had?

_Yes_ , Oswald realizes, a quiet gasp in his throat, heated color on his skin, yes, of course he’d let him. If just his arms through layers of stiffened cloth manage to make him feel so _close_ , so _protective_ , just imagine: his skin, Oswald’s body, both surrendering, only to the other, in ways uniquely and inimitably them.

_I’d give you that_ , Oswald thinks with a thrill. Ed and Ed alone could have it, because he wouldn’t laugh, or cringe, or recoil at the scarring on his skin or the twisted bend of his leg.

“ _I’d do anything for you_ ,” Ed had told him, hushed, reverential, and Oswald realizes, in a rush of white-gold heat, that it’s true for him, too - _Anything_ , he thinks, _anything you want, Ed, it’s yours_.

He’s hard. He feels it, like a throbbing glow, and it’s happened before of course (he has a working body, after all), but never has he slipped his hands into pajama bottoms with such swiftness, never so _eagerly_ , like it’s something he wants to _savor_ and not just something he wants to get over and done with so he can roll over and back to sleep.

He wraps a hand around himself, and it’s like feeling himself for the first time, erect and sensitive. He strokes up, bites his lip. It feels _good_ , and he’s stroking down, wondering how Ed would feel in his hand (thicker? longer?), wondering too if Ed is lying in his bed just a few rooms away doing the same thing, imagining Kringle, or perhaps even Oswald -

Oswald squeezes his eyes shut, yanks his pants down with his unoccupied hand to make the movements of his fist easier, strokes speeding. How would Ed imagine him, he muses, would he want him like he’d had Kringle, like his dad had had his mom? Oswald’s legs spread, a decision reached by his body milliseconds before it’s reached by his mind: _yes_ , Ed would want him like that, and of course, of course, _of course_ he could have it.

Ed, over him, inside him. Eyes dark but brimming with love, a sweaty hand in Oswald’s hair as he pushed deeper in, as Oswald _felt_ him, intimately, from the inside -

Oswald’s hand speeds, muscles tensing, and he can’t help it, he’s making noises, murmurs he swallows to the best of his ability, but it’s a _lot_ , all this inside him, boundaries between him and Ed collapsed, the two connected, Oswald’s insides as bare to him as his outsides, and oh _god_ , just imagine it, Ed _coming_ , spilling inside, face twisted and open, Oswald’s name bubbling out his mouth as joyously as his seed: _Oswald, Oswald, Oswald, I would do anything for you_.

Oswald would come too, then, maybe, or maybe not. It wouldn’t matter, because Ed would be there, going soft inside him, and his arms would wrap around Oswald’s naked waist, and no, maybe Oswald wouldn’t come then but he’s coming _now_ , hips and hands frantic, jaw clenched shut, toes curling, Ed’s face behind his eyelids and his name trapped inside his mouth: _Ed, Ed, Ed. Anything for you._

He comes down with a stifled gasp, sweat cooling on his skin, pajamas bottoms sticky around his upper thighs. He slips them back up, smiling to himself, mind and muscles melting into the mattress beneath him.

Maybe it would go like that, and maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe Ed only wanted women in that way, or maybe, even then, only Kringle, and that’d be as good as anything, both of them content in each other’s simple company, touches above clothing chaste but no less intimate, the spicy-mint of Ed’s favored hair product in Oswald’s nose as he falls asleep wrapped around him.

He’d give Ed anything, take anything, if it meant he would be his and his alone, those arms encircling him entire, encircling him _exclusively_ , until one or both of them died (both, Oswald hoped, going out together).

Tomorrow, Oswald decides. The matter is urgent. Tomorrow he’ll tell Ed. Tomorrow he’ll lay himself bare in shy, confessed syllables: _I love you, I love you, please be mine_.

Oswald feels the very earth beneath him shift, and knows, with a shocking, sudden certainty he can’t explain, that everything he thinks and knows and _is_ is about to change.

As unconsciousness consumes him, a smile on his face and Ed’s arms awaiting him anew in his dreams, all Oswald can do is pray, pray, pray that that change is for the happier.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Dresden Dolls song, "The Gardener."


End file.
